Mr. Monk is a Mess (18 page)

“You shouldn’t have let her hug you,” Monk said.

“Why not?” Yuki said. “Is there a law against simple human contact?”

“Because now you’re covered with dog hair, too,” he said, and plucked a hair off of her with his tweezers.

“Stop that,” Yuki said, backing away.

“You’ll thank me later,” Monk said. He held the hair up in front of him, cocked his head, and studied it. The hair was white.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

But he didn’t answer. He put the hair in a baggie, labeled it with a pen, and stuck it in his pocket. I was about to repeat the question, but that’s when Devlin drove up in Stottlemeyer’s car.

“You drive,” Devlin said to me, getting out of the car and leaving the engine running. She pointed to Yuki. “You sit in the back with me and tell me all about what happened.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mr. Monk and the Perfect Meal

T
he ride into Marin County was long, since we got stuck in rush-hour traffic, but it gave Devlin all the time she needed to get Yuki’s story.

I explained how we found Yuki and I gave Devlin the Web address so she could see the surveillance video of Blackthorn’s first abduction attempt.

“Juanita Banana should have been satisfied when you were sent to prison,” Devlin said. “Chasing you all these years, and the legal fees they are about to incur, are going to cost them a lot more than what you stole.”

“They are a billion-dollar company with interests all over the world,” Yuki said. “The cost means nothing to them. They wanted to send a message to anyone else who might dare to expose their greed and their avarice.”

“They’re sending one,” I said. “But it’s not the one they intended.”

When I pulled up to the curb in front of Ambrose’s house, I noticed there were no service vehicles around and the home across the street appeared to be empty. Blackthorn hadn’t wasted any time closing down their operation and evacuating their team.

“This is where you grew up?” Devlin said, looking at the Monk family home.

“Yes, it is,” Monk said. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“It looks so normal,” Devlin said.

“What were you expecting?” I asked.

“An institution,” she said.

The front door of the house opened and I saw Ambrose framed in the doorway.

The four of us emerged from the car all at once and then something extraordinary happened. As soon as Ambrose spotted Yuki, he burst out of the house.

He leaped off the porch, ran down the front walk, and flew into her open arms, nearly tackling her.

They embraced for a long moment, Ambrose holding her tight, as if she were a life preserver and he might drown if he let go.

I glanced at Monk, and saw him staring at his brother in disbelief, his head cocked at an angle.

Ambrose kissed Yuki all over her face, making her giggle like a child. Then he took a step back, his hands still clutching her shoulders, and looked at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “And you’re back.”

“You came outside,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I want to be wherever you are, though I’d prefer if that was indoors,” he said. “Did you mean what you wrote in your letter?”

“What part?”

“The part where you said that you’d never leave me?”

“Of course I did,” she said.

Ambrose let go of her, took a deep breath, and dropped to one knee. “Then I would deeply appreciate it if you would consider the remote possibility of maybe marrying me at some point in the future, if you have no other options.”

He reached into the pocket of his cardigan sweater and held out a blue plastic ring with a brown treasure chest on it as the setting. She took the ring and got down on her knees in front of him.

I felt like we should go, that we were intruding on their moment, but I couldn’t move. Monk was as transfixed as I was. Devlin was watching the whole scene with an expression of bewilderment.

Yuki looked at the ring. “What is this?”

“A Cap’n Crunch ring,” he said. “I’ve been saving it for you since 1965. The lid opens.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said and slipped it on her finger.

“So will you think about my proposal?”

She shook her head. “No, Ambrose, I won’t.”

He nodded and started to get up. “It’s okay, I understand. No offense taken.”

Yuki grabbed his arm. “I don’t need to think about it. The answer is yes.”

He looked down at her in shock. “Would you mind repeating that, just for the record?”

She stood up, put her arms around him, and laid her head against his chest.

“Yes, I will marry you, Ambrose Monk. Now. Tomorrow. A year from now. Whenever and wherever you want. I am yours.”

Ambrose smiled and now he looked at Monk. “Did you hear that, Adrian? She said yes. You’re my witness.”

For a moment Monk seemed at a loss for words, even for breath, and I was afraid of what he might say once he found both.

“I’m so glad that I was able to be here for it,” Monk said.

“Me, too,” Ambrose said.

“But there’s a problem.” Monk pointed at Ambrose’s legs. “You have a stain on your knee from kneeling on the wet grass.”

Yuki stepped back so Ambrose could look at his knees.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had stained pants,” Ambrose said. “As I recall from Mother, grass stains are notoriously difficult to clean.”

Monk nodded grimly. “I’m afraid they might never come out.”

Ambrose dropped to his other knee and when he rose again, he had matching stains on both legs. It didn’t surprise me that he did that. He was a Monk, after all, and symmetry is everything to them.

“I hope that’s true, Adrian. I’m going to treasure these filthy pants.” Ambrose seemed to notice Devlin for the first time. He extended his hand to her. “Pardon me, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ambrose Monk.”

“Lieutenant Amy Devlin,” she said. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be serving marshmallows, Strawberry Pop-Tarts, and Fiji water in the house in a moment. But first, if you will all excuse me, I’d like to take a stroll around the block with my fiancée.”

Ambrose offered his hand to Yuki. She took it. And together they walked slowly, hand in hand, down the tree-lined street, Ambrose carefully avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.

We watched them until they disappeared around the corner. Devlin shook her head.

“A Cap’n Crunch ring?” she said.

Monk took a pair of tweezers from his pocket and plucked a dog hair from Devlin’s coat. “They are quite rare.”

“They’re plastic and come from a cereal box,” she said.

“Anyone can buy a diamond.” Monk examined the hair, then put it in a fresh baggie and sealed it. “He’s been saving that ring for the right woman for nearly fifty years.”

“So do you think she’s the right woman, Mr. Monk?” I asked.

“The tattooed, ex-con biker chick who stole a million dollars and pushed a man in front of a bus?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Her.”

Monk shook his head. “No, that’s not her anymore. Now she’s the woman who got my brother out of the house. That makes her the right one.”

* * *

Monk, Devlin, Yuki, and I sat around the dining room table with a glass of Fiji water, an empty plate, and a knife and fork in front of each of us as Ambrose brought in a platter of Strawberry Pop-Tarts and a bowl of marshmallows.

“I’ve never been served Pop-Tarts and marshmallows together before,” Devlin said.

“That’s because only the most rare and special events merit such a combination of delights,” Ambrose said, as he used tongs to place a Pop-Tart on her plate. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

“Two thousand years ago, marshmallows were a delicacy reserved only for the gods and the pharaohs,” Yuki said, repeating a factoid that I know she learned from Ambrose. “It was a crime for anyone else to eat them. But now that anybody can have a marshmallow, we take them for granted. Serving them at moments like this reminds us to appreciate the little things that bring joy to our lives.”

“And Pop-Tart, also known as a toaster pastry, is simply an ingenious confection,” Ambrose said, standing at the head of the table and carefully handling his Pop-Tart with a cloth napkin. “It’s a slice of pie in a convenient rectangular shape that eliminates the mess, requires no cutting, and guarantees consistent portions.”

“It would be better if it was a square,” Monk said, cutting his Pop-Tart with a knife and fork. “However, the Pop-Tart measures three inches by four inches, and that’s twelve square inches, which is a good even number. The Pop-Tart itself is a model for concise, efficient, and conscientious meal preparation and delivery.”

“Serving marshmallows and Pop-Tarts together is a culinary celebration that reflects the joy of whatever occasion you are recognizing,” Ambrose added.

“I never gave much thought to marshmallows and Pop-Tarts,” Devlin said. “I didn’t know that anybody did.”

“It’s why pausing for reflection to acknowledge our joy is so important,” Ambrose said, casting an adoring glance at Yuki. “And I am overflowing with joy right now.”

“So why aren’t you joining us at the table?” she asked.

“Because there’re only five of us,” Ambrose said.

“It’s a big table,” she said. “There’s plenty of room.”

Monk shook his head. “You really don’t want five people at the table.”

“Why not?” Devlin asked.

“It’s uneven,” I said.

“The table won’t tip over,” Devlin said.

“But the earth may slip ever so slightly off its axis,” Monk said. “It’s a matter of cosmic balance.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Devlin said.

“Sure, it seems small to us in this room,” I said, “but if everybody was so cavalier about balance, and all at the same moment, the results could be catastrophic.”

“You buy into this?” Devlin said to me.

“I’ve learned to adapt,” I said.

“I’ve learned to love it,” Yuki said, smiling at Ambrose.

“I feel like I’m dining with the Addams Family,” Devlin said.

“Perhaps we should meet them sometime,” Ambrose said. “I’m ready to widen my social circle.”

Ambrose, it probably goes without saying, shared his brother’s inability to detect sarcasm and lack of general knowledge regarding the keystones of American popular culture (the exception being
Beyond Earth
, Ambrose’s favorite television program).

Devlin’s cell phone rang. She answered it quickly, as if she was grateful for the interruption.

“Devlin,” she said, then listened for a moment. “We’re on our way.” She hung up. “That was the captain. We’re being summoned to the Federal Building.”

“That’s good,” Monk said, setting his knife and fork down and pushing his plate away. “Because we still have a murderer out there to catch.”

“Give me thirty seconds,” Ambrose said. “I’ll get you a Pop-Tart and marshmallows to take to the captain.”

Ambrose hurried into the kitchen. Yuki discreetly got up and followed him, closing the door behind her.

“Do you know who the killer is?” I asked Monk, wondering if I’d missed his tell in all the excitement.

“Not yet, but I think we’re close to a solution.”

“We are?” As far as I knew, we had absolutely nothing to go on. “What have I missed?”

“Everything,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Mr. Monk Finds Balance

W
e didn’t get the Pop-Tart and marshmallows for the captain after all. Yuki made Ambrose forget all about them and we slipped quietly out of the house without saying good-bye.

I’m sure Ambrose and Yuki didn’t mind.

Devlin drove us back into the city. I rode in the front beside her while Monk sat in the backseat, labeling the bags of dog hair from Jeroen Berge’s house that he’d collected off of us throughout the day.

It was not uncommon to see him labeling bags of trash that he intended to throw out. He believed that even garbage should be organized.

We parked on the street in a red zone and went through the checkpoint in the lobby, where we were treated to an unusual amount of scrutiny as a result of our recent encounters with the security staff. The only thing they didn’t do was give us a full cavity search.

When we were finally through the checkpoint, Special Agent Cardea was called down to escort the three of us directly to Thorpe’s tiny office, where Stottlemeyer was already waiting in one of the four guest chairs. It was a tight fit.

The office had a window with a view, but the room itself was substantially smaller than the rolling, half-million-dollar crime lab and command center that Thorpe had occupied when he was on the fast track within the Bureau.

“I want to make sure that you two appreciate the severity of this situation,” Thorpe said to Monk and me. “Your irresponsible rogue conduct put dozens of people in danger and led to the destruction of seven vehicles and one restaurant, and could quite possibly lead to criminal charges against you both.”

Devlin gave me a thumbs-up behind Stottlemeyer’s back.

“I’m in agreement with Thorpe,” Stottlemeyer said. “I would never have condoned an operation like this, certainly not without much more planning, backup, and crowd control.”

“That’s why we didn’t tell you about it,” I said.

Devlin nodded approvingly. “I’ve definitely underestimated you.”

“I don’t appreciate it,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s a miracle nobody was hurt or killed.”

“If anybody was put at risk, it was Blackthorn that did it, not me,” I said. “You seem to be forgetting that they kidnapped Yuki, disobeyed a direct order from a police officer to stand down, and drove backward down a one-way street.”

“You should have anticipated that they might try to run,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I did,” I said. “That’s why I called you.”

“After your operation was already in play,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Blackthorn and their operatives will get what’s coming to them,” Thorpe said to me. “And so will you.”

“Natalie found your missing money and exposed a kidnapping plot,” Monk said. “What she should get is full credit for the arrests and a commendation.”

“She’s not the only one in trouble here, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “You are, too. With me. You figured out where the money was while you were at Jeroen Berge’s house and you didn’t tell me about it. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Who is Jeroen Berge?” Thorpe asked, scratching his hand.

“You’ve never heard of him?” Monk said.

“We wouldn’t be asking if we had,” Cardea said.

“You’re aware that the mailman, Irwin Deeb, intercepted the stolen money that was sent to a mail drop and that he ran off with it,” Monk said.

“We know,” Thorpe said, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on his desk. “That’s why we’ve got him in custody. Get to the point.”

“When Michelle Keeling killed herself, Irwin thought she’d been murdered by whoever actually stole the money,” Monk said. “So he went on the run, hiding out in homes that he knew would be empty because the owners had submitted vacation holds for their mail. One of those homes was Natalie’s, another was Jeroen Berge’s.”

“Okay, so how did Berge end up dead?” Cardea asked.

“Because the inside man who actually stole the money from the evidence room figured out what Irwin did, and how Irwin was hiding, and went looking for him and the money in empty houses, including Berge’s,” Monk said. “But Berge came home early, walked in on the intruder, and got killed for it.”

“And how do you know Irwin wasn’t the intruder who killed Berge?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“Berge died of a broken neck from a kick to the head by someone who is skilled in martial arts,” I said. “That’s definitely not Irwin.”

“But it’s the hair that definitively proves it wasn’t him,” Monk said.

“What hair?” Thorpe asked.

“Jeroen Berge owned a golden retriever that he foolishly allowed to lie on his recliner,” Monk said. “Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Devlin, and Natalie all had to sit on it even though it was blanketed with dog hair.”

“It was a Captain’s Chair,” I said in my defense.

“My God,” Cardea said. “I envy you. Was it the one with the built-in Dolby Surround speakers?”

“It was,” I said.

“Everyone who sat in the chair ended up covered in dog hair,” Monk said.

“He’s exaggerating,” Devlin said. “It was a strand or two.”

“I collected these samples from the three of them during the course of the day,” Monk said and laid out three baggies, labeled with our names and the time the hairs were collected, on Thorpe’s desk. “I also collected a sample from Yuki, who got some dog hair on her when she hugged Natalie outside the post office. Dog hair is like a disease—it spreads on contact.”

Monk placed another baggie on the desk.

“I don’t see what this proves,” Cardea said.

“It proves why you shouldn’t let animals on your furniture,” Monk said.

“How is that relevant to what we are talking about?” Thorpe asked.

“It proves that you’re having an illicit sex affair with Special Agent Nesbo,” Monk said, “the woman who works in the evidence room.”

Thorpe laughed. “You ought to try reading tea leaves instead of dog hairs because you’re way off. I can do better than Nesbo.”

“Perhaps you could,” Monk said, “but you were using her to gain access to the evidence room and steal the marked money.”

“Thorpe is the inside man?” Stottlemeyer said.

“And he killed Jeroen Berge,” Monk said.

It was an astonishing accusation but, then again, most of Monk’s usually are. And he’s always right about this stuff, as I knew Thorpe would soon discover for himself.

I didn’t know how Monk had proven it but it was going to feel especially sweet to see Thorpe go down.

Thorpe took his feet off the desk and stood up in outrage. “If you didn’t know this man was insane before, this ought to make it abundantly clear.”

“I’ll agree it sounds crazy,” Stottlemeyer said. “But it won’t when he’s done.”

“It’s really quite simple,” Monk said to Thorpe. “Agent Nesbo owns a dog, a Jack Russell terrier and shih tzu mix. The dog sheds an enormous amount of black and white hair, some of which you picked up on your clothes in your intimate encounters with Nesbo. I pulled those same hairs off of Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Devlin, Natalie, and Yuki. That’s how I know that you also sat in that chair. Because when you did, you left those hairs behind and picked up the golden retriever hairs that are on you now.”

Thorpe immediately brushed himself, as if that would change anything.

“Okay, maybe I’ve been enjoying a little afternoon delight with Agent Nesbo. I admit that,” Thorpe said. “But that’s how I got this hair on me. It’s from her. What you’ve proved is that she’s the one who stole the money and killed Berge, not me.”

“It makes sense,” Devlin said.

“Not if you’ve ever met her,” I said. “She was shot in the knee in 2009. That’s why she was reassigned to the evidence room. She couldn’t possibly have delivered the fatal kick.”

“But you are a martial artist,” Monk said to Thorpe. “That’s why you keep scratching your hands.”

“It’s because I have dry skin,” Thorpe said.

“From taping your hands and wrists for martial arts bouts,” Monk said. “Agent Nesbo might have been in on the theft with you, but you’re the killer.”

We were all staring at Thorpe now, who was beginning to perspire. He looked around the room.

“C’mon, this is craziness,” he said. “Listen to what he’s saying. His accusations are based on dog hair and dry skin, for God’s sake. It’s ridiculous. Yes, I’ll admit I’ve been having some office nookie, but that’s it. I didn’t steal the money and I’ve never been in Berge’s house.”

“Not according to your desk,” Monk said.

“What?” Thorpe said, practically yelling. “You’re saying my desk was involved in the murder?”

“Berge’s home is landscaped with distinctive gravel that easily gets stuck in the treads of shoes,” Monk said. “This gravel right here.”

Monk gestured to several tiny bits of stone, hardly bigger than grains of sand, on the desk blotter.

“Good God, Thorpe, it really was you,” Cardea said.

Thorpe looked at the gravel and closed his eyes for a long moment, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You’ve been running the investigation on your own crime to throw everyone off the trail,” Cardea continued. “You’ve made a clown out of me and the Bureau.”

“You’ve always been a clown, George,” Thorpe said.

I’d had enough of Thorpe and his arrogance. I stood up. “Does anybody have a set of cuffs?”

Devlin tossed me hers. I caught them and approached Thorpe. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Thorpe looked over at Cardea. “You can’t let her do this. If I am going down, it can’t be by a lowly police officer from some pissant speck of a town. It’s got to be a fed.”

“Who, me?” Cardea said. “I’m a clown, remember? Besides, she deserves this after the misery we’ve put her through.”

I put the cuffs on his wrists. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jeroen Berge and the theft of five hundred thousand dollars from the evidence room of the Federal Building.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” Thorpe said, shaking his head.

I read him his rights. It felt great and I noticed that Stottlemeyer was smiling, too. He didn’t like Thorpe any more than I did. I was hoping this meant I wouldn’t face any negative repercussions for my plan going ever so slightly awry at the post office.

“What were you thinking, Thorpe?” Devlin asked. “Why would you throw away your career for a lousy five hundred thousand dollars?”

“My career was already over. I was going nowhere in the Bureau,” Thorpe said. “I messed up on just one case, the one Monk got involved in, and they took everything away from me—the high-profile investigations, my special unit, my mobile command center—and assigned me to this pitiful closet to handle the piddly crap. Me, a rising star, the best of the best. It was a waste of talent, of my God-given potential. So I decided to get out with a golden parachute.”

“What was Nesbo’s excuse?” I asked.

“She didn’t know anything about it,” Thorpe said. “I was screwing her in the office just to get behind the cage in the evidence room without having to log in.”

“No pun intended,” Devlin said.

“You had to know you were stealing marked money,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Of course I did,” Thorpe said. “I was going to launder it through accounts in the Cayman Islands. It would have worked, too, if I wasn’t cursed.”

“You mean incompetent,” I said.

“My plan was perfect,” Thorpe said. “What were the odds that the box would break, and that the mailman would run off with the cash, and that he’d hide out in the house where Monk’s assistant lives? Bottom line: I’ve been cosmically screwed.”

Monk shook his head. “No, it’s just the natural balance of the universe.”

“Let’s go.” Cardea gathered up the bags of hair and led Thorpe out of the room. When they were gone, the captain turned to Monk.

“You think his downfall was fate?” Stottlemeyer said. “I didn’t know you believed in a higher power.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I believe in balance. Don’t you feel it?”

Stottlemeyer nodded. “As a matter of fact, Monk, I think I do.”

I did, too.